PruCanTreasure
by mistermakara
Summary: "I can't leave Kumacheerio in the car for long, so this needs to be quick," was all he said.


**AN: I bet you guys are SO pissed at me for deleting all the L/Light crap I wrote back in the early days. Well. I swear, I'm much better at this whole...uh...what's it called, "writing" thing now. **

**You'll be seeing more from me. :U **

He sat back in the recliner, the constant rhythm of _back and forth, back and forth_ as he rocked himself, throwing him into a daze. This was Gilbert's new favorite form of meditation; it triggered more nostalgia than anything else, really, but that was what he wanted. The chair held some sentiment to him; it was one of the first things he ever owned, and had never discarded it on the several occasions he had moved between apartment buildings. It made him feel like a lovesick, mildly idiotic teenager again; those days where he used to sit in that same recliner, the sunlight streaming through the blinds and splashing across his face in thin bands. Those were the days where he thought constantly-of all people-of Elizaveta; the way she laughed, he way she got angry, and the bruises she left every time he got an inch closer to her. His hand held the neck of an half-empty beer bottle, while another two rolled around idly on the floor.

The last of his somewhat neurotic bitterness drained away as he felt a pang of moonlight brush past his face, his pale skin panicking somewhat under the light; it was never good with sun exposure, and he never found himself even capable of developing a tan. It didn't matter; he always adored the way he looked, regardless. The way he smiled when he glanced at himself in a mirror-

He was jerked up out of the chair by the sound of the doorbell, which, unfortunately, had lost its

"_dong_" sound for unknown reasons and simply played a stuttering rendition of "_ding_". "Key's under th'mat," Gilbert called out, a little confused as to why he couldn't speak without slurring his consonants. He even jumped back when he saw the two bottles of Pilsner-he dropped the one that had rested in his hand on the ground, grimacing as it spilled onto the grey, matted rug, and kicked the others into a corner.

"Hey." Why, who else would answer the door at this hour-nine forty-two P.M., to be exact-than a blonde, wire-rimmed glasses-bearing Canadian boy, pushing the door ajar and looking inside tentatively. Matthew had gotten into the habit of visiting lately; he'd become drinking buddies with the Prussian and the two had been inside each others' houses too many times to count within the past few weeks. "I can't leave Kumacheerio in the car for long, so this needs to be quick," was all he said.

Gilbert knew that if Matthew was somebody else, he would go on to ask if he was all right, or point out the fact that he didn't see him last night, but didn't; either it was his more shy nature or the fact the boy understood him well enough to know that questions bothered him.

"Hey, man," he replied, sitting up so the recliner's footstool went down and its back went up with him. "You okay?"

Matthew stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "I was _gonna_ ask _you_ that," he responded, stepping into the den and raising a brow at the obvious smell of alcohol that soaked the rugs. "I'm fine, thank you. But you know," he said, a tone of worry creeping into his voice, "you really shouldn't be drinking alone."

"Is_ that _wha' you came over here in night traffic for, man?"

"No!" He sounded extremely defensive, flushing nervously, causing a smirk to play across Gilbert's lips. "I needed to go to the grocery store to get some food for me and...uh..._Kumapaka_, and I decided to drop by. Are you getting enough to eat?" He sounded almost like a worried parent.

"Yeah, ple'nny." Gilbert crossed his legs casually, tilting his head back to see if he could crack his spine; sleeping in the overstuffed recliner left his back a little sore. It worked after he twisted his head a little, but was really more painful than relieving.

"...Prussia, are you hung-over?"

The older scoffed, gesturing shallowly in the air. "Only three Pilsners, man, tha'ssit. S'not like I've got alcohol poisoning or somethin'."

After a short pause, Matt finally decided: "Listen, Prussia, I'm not going to just leave you like this. Let me get Kumapancetta from the car, and I'll make you some dinner, okay?"

"Wha'ever you say, Schätze."

"_Schätze?_" Matthew raised his eyebrows skeptically.

"I'll tell ya when you get back," Gilbert replied, and let his head fall back into the recliner, his jaw half-open and his hand splayed across the arm of the chair.

In the cold, Matthew returned to the driveway of the Prussian's house, too much on his mind to say anything in return to Kumajirou after he mumbled something about being tired. What was his _problem_, he wondered, and why was it Gilbert singled _him_ out? He was sure that making an acquaintance would do him good in the future, but really, it was nothing different than before. Like Francis, and like Alfred; either they ignored him or took advantage of him. But there was something about the man that didn't annoy Matt as much as, say, his brother did; something that made him feel almost sorry for Gilbert. The boy was probably the only person that hadn't snubbed him yet.

Setting the groggy polar bear down on the sofa, he watched it doze off before turning back to Gilbert. "What was that you wanted to tell me?" he asked, to which, in response, Gilbert simply stood up. Steadying himself on the sofa's arm, he walked towards the boy, gritting his teeth in an unreadable expression. "You don't have to get up, you know-" He was cut off, to his surprise, by his lips being pulled to Gilbert's.

Matthew shuddered at his taste of beer and sachertorte he had obviously stolen from Roderich next door, but did not protest. There was something about this man that didn't make him want to refuse, unlike Francis. However, much _like_ the Frenchman, there was no way Matt could ever escape.

"Tha's about it," Gilbert said, with a smirk, and half-fell back into the recliner.

"Makes sense to me," he replied, and smiled tentatively, what had just happened in the past few minutes not entirely registering to him just yet. "Listen, I'll go make us something, all right?"

"Cool," he agreed. "Hey, Matt?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you make pancakes?"

"...Sure."


End file.
